


First Serve

by basil7



Series: Forty Love [2]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkward Conversations, M/M, Romantic Friendship, Unresolved Romantic Tension, not so oblivious Domi, sarcastic Sascha, thirev
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 04:21:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18066479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basil7/pseuds/basil7
Summary: Sascha Zverev is strong and determined; so he generally takes out his emotions on his racquets, like a petulant child. As there are no racquets in his bedroom now, he contemplates throwing the water bottles, glass, TV remote and PlayStation controller, but before he can make a choice of a projectile, there is a knock on the door along with a softly enunciated "Sascha?".Or, how first serve can make or break your game.





	First Serve

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is a sequel to Where do We Draw the Line?, but it can be read as a stand alone fic.  
> 2\. Sascha lost his opening match (2nd round) in last year's (2018) Indian Wells. So I imagine him being a bit nervous this time.  
> 3\. Similar to the previous part, the characters' thoughts are in italics.  
> 4\. As always, I DON'T OWN THE CHARACTERS; THESE ARE REAL PEOPLE WITH REAL LIVES.

It is quite a relief that seeded players get bye in the 1st round at Indian Wells. The only thing worse than losing in the 2nd round is losing in the 1st round. But that doesn't make a difference to Sascha, because he is half way into a full-blown panic attack as he wretchedly goes over last year's disaster in minute details in his restless mind. What if that happens again? What if he loses his opening match here this time too? The newspapers would have a field day, of course, since they are already dismissing the Next Gen as over-hyped and under-performing. They are not wrong, really. If Sascha is honest with himself ( _which he is, especially when there are no nosy journalists asking provocative questions_ ), the Next Gen has not yet been able to deliver. Yes, he has won two Masters titles and the ATP finals last year, and Domi has played in a Grand Slam final, but those results are not big enough to make a dent into the Big Three's dominance. If nothing makes a difference, what's the point of carrying on like this? Well, if anyone could understand that aching sense of disappointment pooling into the hollow weight in chest, it is Domi. He doesn't want to give in to that relentless itch in his fingers hovering over the screen of his phone, one bad decision away from pressing "call". If he calls Domi now, he can never undo it. In this state of mind, who knows what Sascha might confess?

 _Oh no!_ He has pressed "call" without even realising it while fumbling with his phone. _Oh shit! He can't hang up now, 'cause Domi will see the "missed call" notification and call him back, and this is a catastrophe_ \- "Hello, Sascha!" Dominic's warm voice washes over him, already soothing all the jagged edges of his frayed nerves with that familiar, honey-sweet lilt that rolls over the second syllable of his name like melting chocolate. 

"Hi. I mean, hello. I mean, I didn't mean to call, but -", Sascha flounders, feeling increasingly idiotic by the second. 

"Hey, it's alright. How're you doing?"

"I'm alright." The lie slips out instinctively, before he can stop himself. No, now is not the time to hide his feelings; he needs to see Dominic once before the tour starts in earnest. "Okay, that didn't come out right. I'm not alright, Domi. I'm a complete mess. What if I screw this up like last year?!", his voice rising to a shrill note of panic as he envisions the possibility again. 

"Deep breaths, Sascha. It will be okay." Dominic's voice turns a shade deeper, as if trying to pacify an upset child. 

"What if it's not okay? What if I lose again, Domi?!" 

"That's tennis. There will always be times when you lose." Though all rational, Dominic's words are laced with his own disappointment, tinged with the memories of his own losses in Masters and Majors. 

"I don't think I can go on like this. This uncertainty. What am I doing wrong? What do I lack? What if I never make it?" Sascha knows he is being selfish, asking him all these rhetorical questions, when he has been more successful than Domi in the tour. But who else could he say this to? If Mischa or his father gets a wind of his anxiety, he'll never hear the end of it. 

"I'm coming over, Sascha. And don't drink, you have training tomorrow." On that tone of gentle command, Dominic hangs up.

* * *

 

It has been quarter of an hour since the call, and Sascha feels even more jittery now; the thought of Domi coming over to _comfort_ him is far from comforting, because his attraction to Dominic is as inopportune as it is unrequited. His heart and mind are so fragile right now, there is not enough willpower left not to break down in sobs in front of Domi, begging him to love him back. _Who is he kidding, he has been feeling that way for the last fourteen months! The only thing holding him back is the fear of Domi's rejection, that last nail in the coffin that will end all his hopes with crushing finality._ But Sascha Zverev is strong and determined; so, like a petulant child, he generally takes his emotions out on his racquets. As there are no racquets in his bedroom now, he contemplates throwing the water bottles, glass, TV remote and PlayStation controller, but before he can make a choice of a projectile, there is a knock on the door along with a softly enunciated "Sascha?". 

 "Hey, Domi! Come in, please." Sascha croaks, his throat suddenly gone dry, as he stands aside to let him in, Domi's bright smile making his heart leave this plane of existence and float somewhere in the next. 

"So how's the darling of the ATP on this fine day?", Dominic asks jocosely. 

"Damn it, Domi, don't joke! What if I lose in the second round?!" Domi's cheerful tone pisses him off, thankfully driving all the romantic thoughts out of mind. 

"Still no worse than last year. And besides, you won't lose." 

"But I always do! Didn't you see what happened in Acapulco?"

"Yes, but you cannot think like that. That mentality is not conducive to competitive sports." Dominic emphasises with a shrug, as he sits down on the couch. 

"Have you swallowed a dictionary? Since when do you speak like that?" Sascha is taken aback by Domi's choice of words. He doesn't talk so formally, not even for press. 

"And since when do you volley?", Dominic retorted, a little hurt and coming up with nothing better. 

Sascha grins finally. Feigning a nonchalance he doesn't remotely feel, he asks coyly, "So you were watching Acapulco, huh? Were you checking me out?"

And just like that the atmosphere of the room transforms, a marked change from lighthearted to awkward.  _His voice of reason (which sounds suspiciously like Domi) remonstrates: Oh, Alexander, you never learn! You always ruin everything! And now Domi will leave, and you will wallow in misery and self-pity, replaying in your head how this conversation might have unfolded if you didn't fuck it up, until your next loss leaves you too broken to think._ He sighs in defeat and sits down heavily beside Domi. Too embarrassed to look at him, Sascha stares at the black screen of the switched-off TV, until a tentative, feather-light touch on his shoulder makes him turn. He almost flinches at the soft look of concern etched on Dominic's face. "Please, Sascha. I cannot give you what you want."

Annoyed at being treated like an object of pity, he takes recourse to sarcasm. "Ah, Mr. Thiem the Mind Reader!", he jeers with a mocking smile, at which Domi only shakes his head sadly. "Don't look at me like that, Domi. What the fuck do you know of what I want? You don't even talk to me anymore!"

Dominic smiles, attempting to lighten the mood: "We are talking, aren't we? And everybody on tour knows what you want." 

Suddenly nervous, Sascha sits up, barely managing to whisper, "What do I want?"

"A Grand Slam, of course!", Dominic laughs, throwing back his head, the corner of his eyes crinkling. 

Disappointed, Sascha sinks back into the couch, takes a cushion onto his lap and starts picking at its corner. "Yeah. And I'm no closer to that than I am to other things I want," he murmurs, bitterness palpable in his words.

It's Dominic's turn to panic now. He never thought he'd ever be on the receiving end of a complicated friendship-turned-unrequited-attraction situation. He doesn't want to hurt Sascha, but he really has no idea how to handle this.  _Painting yourself into a corner, as always. Yeah, what else is new? Damn the German's ability to always place Domi between a rock and a hard place._ "Sascha, don't," he hurriedly says, "it's no one's fault that things are this way, but we're tennis players and this is one of the many things we cannot do, that we are not allowed to do."

The German is almost knocked over by the surge of anger that courses through his veins as he roars, "It's no one's fault?!" He stand up abruptly, the cushion tumbling to the floor. Fists clenched, sweat breaking out on his forehead, his body quivering with scarcely suppressed rage, he yells again: "It's no one's fault?! Damn it, if it's anyone's fault it's yours! What is it we cannot do?! Say it, Domi, you coward, fucking say it!"

Dominic stutters, stumbles over his carefully prepared speech, and realises the inadequacy of language as his voice deserts him. Sascha's tirade continues. "Fuck you, Domi! You're the one ruining this. You're destroying our friendship! Don't mumble, speak up!"

Finding his voice finally, the Austrian gestures towards his stance and asks with a rueful smile, "You want to hit me, Sascha?" And just like that Sascha deflates, collapses dejectedly on the couch, with his hands over his face. Dominic pats his knee. "We're tennis players, we can get along fine without having a close friendship. Everybody else on the tour does it."

Peeking from behind his fingers, Sascha mutters: "And you want that for us? You want to throw away our friendship just because we play tennis? That's a pathetic excuse, even for you, Domi."

"No, I mean, the way things are between us, I cannot give you what you want, so may be it is better this way. This way you won't hate me, and I won't hurt you, and we'd be able to preserve whatever little is left of our friendship."

"Oh, so you're doing this to be noble, eh?" Sascha slips back into his default sarcastic mode. "you think you're saving me? Saving me from what? There's nothing to save me from, Domi! You're the one in need of saving, you know. From your own stupidity!"

Exasperated, Dominic gets up. "You know what? I think I'm gonna leave. I didn't come here to be insulted by you."

Sascha jumps up, blocking his way, all traces of the sardonic smirk wiped off his countenance in an instant. "No. You came here because I was scared and you love me," he stares steadily at Domi, his voice surprisingly deep. Domi opens his mouth, closes it promptly, and glares at the abused cushion on the floor. Sascha continues softly, "Are you gonna deny it? You know I've always loved you. Since you called me before the Acapulco final I thought you returned some of my feelings. Am I wrong? I know you are not obliged to love me back, but just tell me if I am wrong."

"Sascha, please. We cannot have this conversation now in the middle of a tournament." Dominic is running out of excuses, but he doesn't know what else to say, how to alleviate that sadness from his friend's eyes, how to provide that solace which is a prerequisite of all friendships. 

Sascha pleads, desperate. "Tell me, Domi. If not now, then when? We'll always be in the middle of tournaments."

"Sascha, don't do this to yourself. There's too much at stake, you can't afford to do this. This is not worth ruining your career over. You're only twenty-one, don't make this mistake." He implores, trying to make him see reason. 

"And I'll never be twenty-one again. If I cannot make my mistakes now, when would I ever?"

The Austrian gives up. "It's late," he says, turning away from Sascha. "Your father told me not to stay too long, and Günter will kill me if I don't return now. You need to sleep, I need to sleep, we both need to train tomorrow."

"So that's it? That's all? I lay my heart bare to you, and all you can say is we need to train tomorrow? It took me all I had to admit my feelings, and you're just going to leave?"

Though the words sting more than they should, Dominic shakes his head to get rid of that feeling like he is drowning, and starts walking towards the door. 

"Yeah, walk away, that's the best you can do."

Sascha's taunt hits him like a whiplash, a shudder rips through his body. He falters for a moment, and then rushes back and hugs Sascha tightly, pressing his face into the taller man's chest. Rather bewildered, Sascha returns the embrace tenderly, tucks his chin against Domi's head, and inhales the familiar fruity scent of his shampoo. "We'll talk about this after this tour, okay?", Dominic mumbles into Sascha'a slightly heaving chest. "And thank you for telling me. I cannot promise you anything, Sascha, but you already know that. I need some time, you know. To think about this, about other things, but we'll talk."

"Yeah. I'm sorry I yelled," Sascha whsipers. "We'll talk later."

Letting go of him, Domi offers a smile. "And don't panic, you'll do well. Good luck!" The tremulous smile he receives from the German is full of hope and a new tenderness that sends a pang of guilt through his heart. 

"Yeah, you too, Domi. See you around, yeah?" Sascha releases him reluctantly. 

"Yeah. Just work on your first serve, it's terrible." Domi grins. 

As the door clicks shut, Sascha falls onto his bed and groans, mortified that he just had a fight with Domi in the process of confessing his feelings. _Talk about a terrible first serve._

 

~to be continued~


End file.
